


Not Made for Walking

by AstroGirl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Gift Giving, the holy water argument
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22533622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroGirl/pseuds/AstroGirl
Summary: Aziraphale won't give Crowley what he asked for.  But at least he's getting something for Christmas.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 53
Collections: Genprompt Bingo Round 17





	Not Made for Walking

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Gen Prompt Bingo for the prompt "shoes." And if I'd actually sat down and written it when I first had the idea for it, it would have been seasonally appropriate. But instead you get in February.

"Compliments of the season," the letter says, and "Perhaps you would do me the honor of joining me for a little Christmas Eve drink?"

No "sorry we haven't spoken in years." No "I've realized how irrational I was being and I'd like to make it up to you." 

For a moment, Crowley considers sending back a testy reply, something along the lines of, "Your liquor cabinet does not contain the liquid I'm interested in. Talk to me again when you're willing to offer me what I actually want."

Then again, maybe he _is_ willing. Maybe he's reconsidered. Maybe he thinks "join me for a drink" is some kind of clever code. Probably not, though. When Aziraphale believes he shouldn't do something, at least something that doesn't involve putting anything in his mouth, he usually won't come around on his own. Crowley has to tempt and wheedle and provide plausible excuses for him to pretend to ponder carefully before he agrees. And Crowley hasn't felt up to it, not this time. Maybe because for once Aziraphale didn't sound like he was willing to be persuaded. 

Which hurts. He's willing to admit it, if not out loud, and not for very long.

He stares at the letter again.

He'll go. Who does he think he's fooling? Of course he will.

**

The bookshop seems even cozier than usual, and Crowley's not certain whether that's because he hasn't set foot in it for so long, or if it's because the angel has made some effort at decorating for Christmas. Aziraphale's idea of Christmas decorating is less tacky than Crowley would have expected, to be honest. A few well-placed sprigs of holly, some candles, that sort of thing. He pretends to sneer at it a little, anyway, but Aziraphale ignores it.

"Crowley! How good of you to come. Do come in."

He does. 

The angel fusses over him a little. Gives him wine. Smiles at him, as if they're friends, as if there's nothing unresolved between them at all, nothing remotely difficult. Babbles at him cheerfully about the theater, about a new restaurant opening down the street, about amusing little adventures he's had with the local humans.

It's nice. Satan help him, it's _nice_ , and any moment now he really ought to interrupt, ought to remind Aziraphale what Crowley needs from him. Ought, perhaps, to make his continued presence contingent on it, because it's clear the angel wants someone to talk to. That he's been lonely.

He keeps his mouth shut, though. What the heaven. It's Christmas. Peace on Earth, and all that rot. And, really, who else is he going to... to _fraternize_ with?

"Oh!" Aziraphale exclaims in a way that makes it instantly clear this is something he's been thinking about all evening, "I almost forgot. I have something for you."

"Really?" Could it be this easy, after all? Crowley desperately tries to think of what to say when Aziraphale hands the holy water over. Something sardonic, but not cruel. Something that will let the angel know how grateful he is, how important this was to him, but without actually _saying_ it. Maybe...?

"Here." Aziraphale hands him a package, wrapped in festive green paper. If it's holy water, there's more of it in there than he expected. 

But he doesn't think it is. Too light. So, what...?

"Is this," he manages. "Angel, did you get me a _Christmas present_?"

Aziraphale instantly looks worried. "Is that all right? I wasn't sure, I mean, demon, Christmas. I understand if you find it, I don't know. Offensive?" His look turns hopeful. He wants Crowley to reassure him.

And, bless it, that's not an expression Crowley's ever learned to reject, not in six thousand years of... Well, all right, of not trying very hard, probably. "Nah," he says. "Christmas is all right. Hotbed of pettiness and exploitable disappointment, Christmas. Anyway, He was all right. Nice kid. Couldn't help who His family is." 

Which is true. It's Easter that Crowley resents. Not least because the fertility festivals it co-opted and replaced were infinitely more fun.

"Oh, good," says Aziraphale, his face melting into a smile. "I've become rather fond of it myself, you know. It's much less awkward for me than Hanukkah. It never seemed to me to be quite the thing to celebrate one's own miracles, you know."

"Wouldn't know," says Crowley, examining his gift. It is perfectly wrapped and tied up with a silky ribbon the color of Crowley's hair. "Nobody ever celebrated any of mine." He looks up at Aziraphale. "I didn't get you anything."

"Pish posh," says Aziraphale. "It's nothing really. I just... saw them and thought of you."

 _Them?_ "Shall I...?" He gestures at the box. Well, more sort of with the box.

"Do."

Crowley opens it. He carefully unwinds the ribbon, unfolds the paper. Not very demonic of him, this... daintiness, but, well, he never did enjoy undoing Aziraphale's work.

Inside is a box. Inside the box are...

Crowley raises an eyebrow. "Shoes?"

"Boots," Aziraphale corrects him. "Oh. Do you not like them?"

They _are_ boots. Snakeskin boots. Crowley pulls one out and examines it. Beneath his fingers, the scaly hide is cool and familiar-feeling. 

They're black, with a strip of red at the bottom.

They look like him. 

Aziraphale has seen him in snake form exactly once, back in Eden. Nearly six thousand years later, and he's remembered it perfectly.

"I had to guess at your size," Aziraphale says, sounding much less worried about him not liking them now. "But, of course, if it's not quite right, I'm sure a little miracle will have them fitting like... Well, like a second skin." He looks stupidly pleased with this turn of phrase.

Crowley bends down and removes his shoes. They're stylish, like everything else in his wardrobe, but suddenly they're not very _interesting_.

The boots fit perfectly. They _do_ feel like his skin.

"Lovely!" says Aziraphale. He's beaming now, smiling like everything's perfect, like this somehow makes everything between them all right again, and Crowley can't resist. He just _can't_.

He forces his features into a scowl, slides his glasses down his nose, and fixes the angel with a sharp yellow glare. "Bit tasteless, don't you think?"

"I'm..." The smile falters, and Crowley almost relents. Almost. "I'm sorry?"

"Well. I _am_ a snake, angel." He opens his mouth, gives Aziraphale a flash of fang and a forked-tongue hiss.

"Oh! Oh, Crowley, I'm sorry, I didn't _think_ , I... Take them off right away. I'll take them back. I'll..."

It's genuine dismay, and Crowley instantly feels... Well, not remotely what a demon is _supposed_ to feel at the sight of angelic dismay. He waves his hands frantically in front of him. "Joking, angel! I'm joking!"

"Oh. Oh... really?" And the happy relief on the angel's face almost makes the whole thing worth it.

"Yeah. Yeah. They're great. I love 'em." Crowley smiles again, again with a flash of fang. "Not gonna lie, though, I'm looking forward to letting Hell think I skinned one of my own kind to wear its hide on my feet. Do my reputation the world of good."

"Now, really," says Aziraphale. But he looks pleased.

"Thank you," says Crowley. "Really." 

And even if it's not what he wanted, he means it.

** 

He comes back the next day with a bottle of good scotch and some of those chocolates Aziraphale likes, and the angel's smile when he sees that Crowley is wearing the boots is almost wider than the one he aims at his gifts.

Maybe now, when he's in such a good mood, is the time to bring the holy water up again. They're going to have to address it sooner or later. Even under all this yuletide cheer, Crowley can still feel the argument festering between them.

And if it ruins Aziraphale's Christmas, well, that would be an extremely demonic thing to do, wouldn't it?

It's that that decides him, really. After all, who wants to work on Christmas Day?

No. Much better to spend it drinking with a friend, your boots propped up on his table, scales glittering with dark reflections of his warm and comfortable fire. Everything else can wait. 

At least, he very much hopes it can.


End file.
